


Dragon Age Prompts

by aureliu_s



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Anders Needs a Hug, Angst, Awkward Cullen, Background Sebastian Vael, Broody Fenris (Dragon Age), Caring Sebastian, F/M, Fenris Needs a Hug, Fenris is Bad at Feelings, Fluff, King Alistair, Mentally Unstable Anders, Multi, Other, Protective Fenris, Rape, Sadness, Sebastian Vael Smut, Slow Burn, Smut, Tags and Characters will be updated, Top Sebastian, Warden Alistair, but its all good i swear, prompts, sassy Anders
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-04-19 20:59:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 21
Words: 13,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14245626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aureliu_s/pseuds/aureliu_s
Summary: Here I will put anything and everything that is Dragon Age-related and based off a prompt. Some basic warnings are smut, fluff, angst, rape, and death, as these pieces could contain any of those themes. It's all subject to AUs and switcharoos.





	1. The Arishok (Fenris/Fem!Hawke)

**Author's Note:**

> 22: things you said when it was over (fenris/female hawke)

He watched her carefully from behind, her swaying frame and dazed eyes, the sudden expression of exhaustion on her face. The Arishok surrendered his last few words to her, and around them the Qunari scattering the Keep wavered. Their leader killed by a bas? That seemed near impossible. Merrill and Varric seemed more wary of their surroundings, but Fenris kept his eye trained on her. He watched as the big oxman’s chest slowly stopped moving and his baritone voice carried no more to their ears.  
And because he was watching, he was ready when she finally fell.  
It could’ve been a harsh tumble downwards, directly onto the Arishok’s blade or onto the man himself. But he lunged forward, carefully avoiding where her sword had fallen and locked arms around her waist.  
Varric and Merrill immediately snapped back to where Fenris dropped himself to one knee, helping Hawke down with him to lean against the leg that stood at a strong right angle. The stone floors of the Viscount’s Keep were slathered in Qunari blood.  
“You fought well, Hawke.” He said, barely above a whisper, for her ears only. In a cautious and hesitant motion he swept flyaway hair from her face. Her blue eyes searched his face in minor confusion.  
“Is it over?” She asked him, searching for something to grab. Finding his wrist she gave a tight squeeze, and a wave of relief that he could almost feel washed over her face. Yes, it was over. She knew it was now.  
His green eyes glanced quietly over her body; she seemed to have borne no major wounds, though the chance to acquire many had presented itself more than once. Perhaps a fractured arm and rib, bruises and cuts that would take months to heal, but nothing so fantastical that a mage healing would be required. When he looked back up to her face, splattered in some places with blood, her blue eyes were closed. He found no reason to panic in her sudden unconscious state; her breathing was normal, paced, and all wounds seemed to be external.  
With caution, Varric and Merrill moved closer, standing on his sides.  
“Yes, it is over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOW DOES ONE DEFEAT THE ARISHOK


	2. The Fire (Fenris/Fem!Hawke)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 44: things you said after you kissed me (Fenris/Fem!Hawke)

“Has your hair gotten longer?”

He was reluctant to wake her, but the words came from his lips without a precursor thought. They were soft enough, maybe, so that she wouldn’t hear.

Nevertheless, she sighed a little and turned onto her back, one arm dutifully covering her breasts.

“I imagine it has. With everything happening, I haven’t had time to keep up with myself.”

He felt the smallest of smiles tug at his lips, sliding his hand to hers and letting their fingers lock together.

“I see no slow to it, either. Meredith and Orsino split farther by the day. There’s only so much the Grand Cleric is able to sweep under the rug.”

She gave him a slight nod, retaining her silence now, before a sigh escaped her lips and her blue eyes traveled back to the crackling fire.

Fenris’ smile disappeared and an ever familiar frown took its place.

“I’m sorry. We don’t have to discuss business.”

“No, it’s alright. It seems like that’s all Kirkwall has to talk about these days.”

His gaze settled on the fire for a moment, before trailing back to her torso. She looked beautiful even in the armor, but to see her without it was like viewing a different person. A person not everyone had seen, but he could claim he set eyes upon. “Aveline is right about this place, Fen. It’s hard to keep the city officials from noticing.”

Fenris took a solid look around the room; she was right. Danarius’ mansion had been falling into disarray, and, more than that, decay in the six years he had been inhabiting it. From his spot propped on his elbow in front of fire, he could point out three potentially dangerous cracks in the wall. A gentle handed guided his green eyes back down to hers, and Hawke smiled at him.  
“You could always live with me, you know.”

He stared down at her for a moment, almost shocked but not at all surprised she would offer him such accommodations.   
“I already use your money, Hawke. You do not need to let me impose on you further.”

Faryn laughed a little and sat up, dragging the blanket up to cover her chest as she did.  
“You wouldn’t be imposing. It’s a big house, and it’s been quiet since Mother died.” Fenris’ eyes moved to the floor behind her. Must she provide everything for him?

But it was not an offer he would turn down.  
“Very well.” Her smile grew and she closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against his. He slid one tan arm around her waist and brought her face up to his, placing a warming kiss against her lips. Part of him would be happy to get out of Danarius’ mansion, he knew. The other part would be exuberant to be around Hawke.  

Either way, he was finally winning something.


	3. My Templar (Cullen/Azriel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 60: (make your own) things you said when we were just beginning

“Your Templar clearly knows where to draw the line.” The Chancellor snuffed, swinging his arms behind him and clasping hands together to complete the pretentious chantry look. To his left, Azriel snorted, and shared a glance with Cullen beside her. “The walls will be standing when you return, I hope.” The blonde grumbled, crossing his arms over his chestplate and settling his steely gaze against Roderick’s. “I have faith they will be.” She nodded, and took a long look around Haven before turning her attention back to an ever-present Chancellor Roderick. “I also have faith, Chancellor, that my Templar’s ears will be attached to his head when I return, lest you talk them into falling off.” She gave Cullen’s shoulder a pat before smiling at the cleric. “Let’s hope my faith isn’t misplaced.” Crossing her arms under her breasts again she turned towards Haven’s Chantry to meet Cassandra and make final preparations for their trip to Val Royeaux.

Cullen went over her words in his head-- _my Templar_ \--and grinned. She did have a knack for intimidation, that one. Chancellor Roderick eyed him suspiciously, eyed his scarred lip moving into a smile. Her words were like a fortification against this annoying Chantry fly. The Commander squared his shoulders and let his smile fade, squinting against the early sun.

_My Templar._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I restarted Inquisition bc I wanted to play through again and I made a 2.0 version of my Inquisitor, and honestly I didn't like it at first but she's so pretty now wtf


	4. Lady Trevelyan (Azriel/Cullen)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20: things you said i wasn't meant to hear

“I’m pleased to say so. The Herald is a well-trained warrior.” Cassandra said, mulling around the large oak table in the center of the room. The table’s size made it a little more cramped than it had to be, and Cullen had been thinking of requisitioning a new one, but it seemed a petty problem compared to the ones the rest of them faced. “And she does not complain. It is more than I would have expected from any noble.”

Cullen straightened, finally breaking his tired gaze from the table and resting both palms on the hilt of his sword.   
“There is no time for complaining, and that’s something she knows. Lady Trevelyan is a fine woman.”

Six eyes turned on him, all wearing the same expression of surprise. Immediately his cheeks flared and he stumbled to recover himself. “A fine warrior--yes, a warrior. Why are you all looking at me like that? Maker...” he dragged a gloved hand down his face. He was tired, and the Herald had returned from Val Royeaux less than an hour ago with nothing but more loose ends and leads to pursue. 

“I do believe that is the first time I have heard you speak of her, Commander.” Leliana pointed out, her voice sly and hintingly Orlesian as ever. “You seem fond of the Herald.”   
“I am--not like you’re saying. She is a good leader, she’s...” he swallowed despite the dryness of his throat and looked to Cassandra for help.   
“She is exactly what we need, when we need it.” The Seeker resolved for him, giving a slow nod as she spoke. Of course. Something simple, he reminded himself. Something simple would always tide them over and bury their smiles and chuckles at his expense. With a sigh, Cullen made a vague gesture to Cassandra.   
“Yes. That.”

Behind him, Josephine giggled into her papers.


	5. Cole (Azriel/Cullen)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 58: things you were afraid to say (Azriel/Cullen)

“Wanting, waiting, standing in the sun hoping you’ll come visit him. His day is heavy work, but...you help.”

The words met her ears just as she passed. Cole had been quiet in the days since Haven, and had hardly left the medical tents set up around an eternal campfire. She was surprised to hear his voice, and when she turned she found him sitting cross-legged on the grass, staring at his feet.   
“He is glad you escaped Haven, questioning, wondering if you are truly providence. He is glad that you are glad he survived. He saw it on your face when you told him, the affect, the aftershocks, and knows you are still hurt. No, no, a woman. He battles with the ideas. Without her, the flame is extinguished and he has nothing left to read by at night.”   
“Cole?” Azriel raised a single eyebrow, moving closer to the babbling spirit.

  
“He used to fear the Anchor, and you--in a way. Not a bad one. The astute, the clearness of it all hit him like a wave. Now he is determined and, and now, he wants to hold your hands. He thinks it is a foolish idea, he dismisses it like he dismisses his soldiers, but he wants to. Just hasn’t found a way to.”

Following Cole’s gaze not too far away and across the gaze, her lavender eyes settled on Cullen.  

“But he won’t tell you any of this. He doesn’t know how. One fight he can’t approach or read through.”

Warily, the Commander looked up, glaned around, and found her eyes on him. 

“He gets nervous when he sees you, but, not scared, no fear. He is only scared when you talk to him. Maker, what if I mess up? Slip? What will she think of me? What  _ does _ she think of me? You are so strong, worthy, beautiful and he is so...broken.”

His scarred lip crafted itself into a tired smile. The past three days had been busy and none of them had found a moment to rest until another issue presented itself. 

“I hope that helps. I think it does.”

She turned around and Cole was gone. 


	6. The Fade (Fenris/Fem!Hawke)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 24: things you said with clenched fists (Fenris/Hawke)

“You never had the right to begin with.”

“Calm down, Broody. None of us had a choice.”   
“Obviously she did!”

Skyhold had been on edge since the return from Adamant, and Varric even more so since Fenris’ arrival. That had been the first letter Varric sent, even before Adamant; he had asked the elf to come, but he couldn’t have predicted the outcome. Either of them, really. Both were miracles and disasters in themselves.

“Why are you arguing, Fen? I’m here.”

Varric looked up to Faryn Hawke, standing on two sturdy wooden crutches alongside him. They had all felt-- _ believed _ in her death in the Fade, that much was for certain. When she had stumbled out of a rift in the Western Approach, their grief and anger was replaced by confusion and less rejoicing than he would’ve expected.

_ Fen. _ The nickname alleviated the tightness of his shoulders but not the twitching of his jaw. The Inquisitor looked just as concerned as everyone around them. He knew he was making a scene, but didn’t care. He had very little to lose.

“You’re willing to give the life of those who aid you? Then this Inquisition is truly more leaderless as ever.” He spat. Trevelyan--he remembered her name, it burned like fire in his head--impatiently tapped her thigh. The insult wasn’t what she had been receiving, and it stuck like a dagger in the flowers of compassion given by her followers. 

“Fenris, please. The Inquisitor was only doing what she could. And I’m alive, so there’s nothing to be arguing about.” 

The ex-slave gave the Inquisitor a last hard look before turning to Varric and Hawke. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, green eyes narrowed. It didn’t take a trained eye to see the faint glow of his lyrium markings. He was furious; that was putting it plainly. The thought of losing Faryn had crossed his mind less than the chances of losing her had presented themselves. Maybe that was bad, maybe it would benefit him. It certainly hadn’t when Varric informed him of her death at the will of this  _ Inquisitor _ . It certainly hadn’t when he was told of her arrival.    
“Not anymore.”

All eyes were on the pair as he helped her out, offering his arm and carrying the crutches down the stairs. Neither made an attempt to look back. The hall’s usual low murmur began to climb again, all topics of any conversation the same. 

“He means no harm, Inquisitor. Fenris has never been one so highly skilled in communication,” the dwarf put off this comment with a dramatic tone and a short chuckle, but the blood had already drained from his face. “Unless communication includes tearing your heart out with his bare hands, he isn’t your man.”

The Inquisitor’s lips melded into a solid frown, and she crossed her arms thoughtfully.   
“Bah. He’ll see reason. He knows the Inquisition is doing good, he just needs time to cool off.” Varric glanced at their retreating figures, Fenris’ white hair unmistakable in the evening sun. “They both do.”


	7. Turn Around (Alistar/Elyse)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 15: things you said with too many miles between us (Alistair/Elyse)

“I got her letter.”   
The Inquisitor nodded, glancing around Skyhold and seeing nothing that warranted her immediate attention, turned it back to him. “I’m surprised you got to her, she’s always been rather impossible to track.”  
Except to him.  
“It sounds like she’s been grasping at straws for a while, but finally has a solid looking lead. There’s danger, but, well...there’s always danger.”  
But if he was there, it would be lessened.  
“Thank you for reaching her. Usually it’s easier to ignore it, push it to the back of your head....” he paused. Like the Calling, only this one of was of the heart and not the mind. “Maker’s breath, but I do miss that woman.” He realized this came out sounding more like a whine than he had intended, and instantly cleared his throat, cheeks flushed against the sunset.  
The Inquisitor, however, gave him a look that sympathized.   
“Do you think she could come and help at Adamant?”  
He only wished.  
“No, I wouldn’t count on it. She said little about her travels and her discoveries, so I’m not sure if her lead requires immediate attention.”  
“She said little?” The Trevelyan blinked in surprise, raising an eyebrow.  
Of course. Stupid him. If she said little, why was the letter so thick? So important?  
“Well. Less than expected.”  
  
After a moment of silence the Inquisitor thanked him and ascended the stairs leading off the battlements, disappearing from view. Like a child, he watched her until the top of her head was out of sight, and scrambled back to the letter sitting atop a pile of crates and sacks piled in the corner of the battlement. He had already read it, earlier when the Leliana had given it to him. Just one section, one section he needed to concern himself with right now.  
  
 _Alistair-_ _  
_ _I trust whatever I’ve told the Inquisitor she will pass along. If not, ask her for it. I only bought this paper to write to you, but when Leliana’s people found me I had to sacrifice a little._  
  
And yet the Inquisitor had still only attained a page, while he held three.  
  
 _I can’t believe the Wardens are doing this. I knew the Calling didn’t feel right, too early, but I couldn’t say for sure._ _  
_ _I miss you. I’ve told the Inquisitor to keep you safe, since you seem partially incapable of doing it yourself._   
  
He snorted lightly at this jab. Knowing her, it wasn’t nearly as rude as it sounded. Elyse Cousland was not one for below the belt hits.   
  
_You know what I mean. Take care of yourself, Alistair. We’ll see this through as we always have, together. Love, Elyse._ _  
_ __  
And that was just the end. The other two pages contained accounts of her adventures, fights, tellings of close calls that made his skin bristle, of flowering language that made his eyes wet. Ironic, he thought, that even from so far away she was still looking after him. The feeling returned; the feeling he had come to dread for all the disappointment it wrought. The feeling that if he turned around, she would be standing there with open arms he could safely crumble into.

 

And, like every time, he gave into the temptation to turn around.


	8. Bright Eyes (Azriel/Cullen)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 31: things you said while I cried in your arms (Azriel/Cullen)

“You didn’t have a choice.”

For once, evening chess had gone wrong. For a week, he had been watching her drained face, pale and pallid, watching her nod and smile and shrug in reply. The most he had heard her speak was upon their return, the morning after, fresh and early, condemning Servis to imprisonment. After that, nothing. Her dracolisk had carried her faithfully from Adamant and nearly three days worth of marching. Her wounds were minor on the physical level.

On the mental one, he was not so sure. 

“I did. I did, Cullen, and I made the wrong decision.”

“Would you have rather killed a Grey Warden?”

He watched her lavender eyes intently from across the chess table. They were glimmering wet, searching the gardens once, twice, three times, over and over in a frantic persuasion to keep herself from crying. Not in front of him. Not like this.

He knew the Wardens meant a lot to her; she had lost a cousin in the Fifth Blight, sacrificed her uncle to the Wardens. 

Cullen carefully got up from his chair, immensely aware of Mother Giselle’s eyes boring into him from across the garden. He knelt beside Azriel, watching as her hands moved to cover her face. 

“No, no. Speak to me.” Her sobs were quiet, but racked her shoulders. Adamant had scared her. From Dorian’s accounts—Varric still refused to speak to anyone after Hawke’s death—she had handled it all with incredible brevity and strength. The Tevinter had checked on her in the days after. Alistair had only spoken briefly to Cullen about the events of the Fade and Adamant, and the Hero even less. 

“What Varric must think of me now. I killed his best friend,” she whispered, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “And now he won’t even talk to me. To  _ anyone.” _

“You did what you had to do, Inquisitor.” He paused for a moment, remembering their recent conversation on the battlements; titles were obsolete with them. They had names, they should be used. “Azriel. It was a necessary sacrifice.” 

She lifted her head to look at him, her blue-purple eyes still overflowing with tears. 

“Maker, what they all must think of me now.” 

Cullen held her gaze for a moment before taking her hands and standing, urging her to do the same. In one slow gesture, he wrapped her in his arms, allowing her to bury her wet face in his neck and weep. He had never heard her cry before, or seen it, and he wouldn’t be the first to admit it unsettled his heart. 

But now she wept in his arms, his neck wet with her tears. Every eye in the garden was on them. Over her shoulder, he spotted Varric. There had been a small memorial set up to Hawke in one of the planting pots. The dwarf looked mildly surprised and terrified at the same time once Cullen’s glare settled on him. 

“It was a necessary sacrifice, Azriel,” he murmured against her hair. “And you mustn’t kick yourself over it.”

He rocked slowly from side to side, letting her cry. She needed to, and she had every right to. As they all did. Adamant had exacted a price not many had foreseen.

And he would help pay hers, if necessary.

 


	9. Maia (Anders/Maia)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 39: things you said when we first met

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throughout the DA games I've tried to use every class--Warden was a rogue, Inquisitor was a warrior. My second playthrough of DA2, I knew I had to make my Hawke a mage. So here we are, with Maia Hawke :) I'm just about halfway through the game and it's WAY more meaningful if you play as a mage. This is a short little thing, just to introduce her into my fanfic n stuff.

“Your brother doesn’t seemed particularly attentive to you.”    
She was quiet, like she always was, letting him work. His fingertips were covered in her blood, her sleeveless mercenary armor stained around her side. Their staffs were leaning against the securely crumbling walls of his clinic—her Chanters’ staff, newly acquired from a blood mage named Grace on the Wounded Coast. He hadn’t been truly surprised by her willingness to spare the blood mages who hadn’t attacked them with Decimus; what he had been surprised by was her ultimately lying to a band of templars armed to the teeth.    
“Carver has a warrior’s mind.”   
Any string of words that had fallen from her lips in the past week had been cryptic, full of veiled meanings like riddles he had to decipher. He wasn’t sure if he liked it yet, having to think about everything she said, but he had no complaints about hearing her voice.   
“A warrior’s mind—narrow?”   
She smiled slowly.   
“You could say that.”    
Anders snorted under his breath, and stood, pinching the thread between his thumb and forefinger.   
“It would be much easier if you let me heal this, you know.” He murmured, searching around the cot for a knife.    
“You should save your energy. For the people.”   
“You offer the people a margin of freedom that they will never afford you, Hawke.” He knelt beside her again, watching the slow rise and fall of her torso. The bleeding had stopped, the cut cleaned but still ugly. “Even your brother.” Finding no blade or scissors, he knelt beside her again and burnt the end of the string off, fingers momentarily glowing with heat.    
Anders got to his feet and offered her his hands. She grabbed his forearms and pulled herself up with a quiet utterance of pain, meeting his eyes for the first time.   
“Maia.”   
“What?”   
“I’d like you to call me Maia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So who do we want more of, Faryn or Maia?


	10. The Prince (Inquisitor/Sebastian Vael)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 58: things you were scared to say
> 
> I’m kind of going out on a limb here with Trevelyan/Sebastian, but I actually really like it and see how it makes sense? Idk. Y’alls thoughts are always welcome :)

“Maker’s breath, woman, say my name.”  
Powerful hips rocked into her just as surely as they rocked into the mattress below, his dark hair still wet and clinging to his neck. Outside, the rain pelted the brothel's outer walls, almost defeating any sound from either of them.  
Her arms wound around his neck, forcing his face down closer to hers, to the point where he could see his own reflection in her lavender eyes if he looked hard enough. Red war paint circled her eyes and blossomed onto her forehead. Dutifully, staring into the depths of his irises, she let out a single word.  
Her warrior’s grip around his neck prevented him from returning to his previous position. His name tumbled so easily from red painted lips—Sebastian—he groaned with the thought of it all and submitted his face to her neck.  
“Again,” he moaned. He rammed his hips deep, eliciting a sweet, low moan from her throat. His hand danced down her body, grazing her thigh, hooking under her knee to hook her leg around his waist. “Again,” He repeated, his accent seeping into his guttural command.  
She moaned into his shoulder, feeling his length buried at a new angle. His hips slowed, coming to a dragging pace, going slow. Her body shuddered beneath him.  
“Sebastian,” she breathed, placing her chin on his shoulder.  
The troubles of his world melted away. His chest relaxed against hers immensely, his thrusts still slow. Whereas her voice only pursued him, pushed him further, for this once it calmed him.  
“I love you.”

He froze.  
Within a second his hips slowed to a stop, his sky colored eyes piercing down into her own.  
She stared back up at him with an intense determination, laced with...fear. Not the same fear he’d seen against enemies, no. A different kind. A fear of rejection; a fear of disgust. He knew Azriel, he knew her well. He knew she was not scared to show fear. But this time, she was fighting a losing battle to make sure he didn’t see it.  
“Trevelyan?” Was the only word that stumbled from his lips. He found comfort in that old game of theirs, using each other’s last names in mock contempt. He felt stupid after he said it, royally stupid.  
“I know you think this is just a physical thing.” Truthfully, he was under no such ideology. They both knew it wasn’t just what she said—“a physical thing”. They both knew. “But I felt I should tell you. I love you.”  
He felt the urge to reinstate his power between her legs slipping away into the carefulness the moment demanded.  
“Aye,” he said thoughtfully, a grin planning on his lips as he lowered his forehead to hers. “Because only a physical thing could grant me so much pleasure.” A slow chuckle spread from his chest. “Only a physical thing could make me want to hear my name from you.”  
With effort, he reached down to grab the thin sheets they had so carelessly kicked away earlier, billowing them over his head.  
“Only a physical thing could make me love you so much, Trevelyan.” He teased with his wolfish smirk, digging his fingers into her sides. She jerked and squealed—a sound from he hadn’t heard since they were children—wriggling away from his tickling hands.  
Even before her laughter subsided, he pressed a loving kiss against her lips, lowering his body comfortably onto hers.  
“You’re a bastard, Sebastian Vael.” She murmured as he touched their noses together.  
“And yet here you are.”


	11. Maker's Tears (Azriel/Sebastian)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 31: things you said while i cried in your arms
> 
>  with a supporting appearance by Elthina

“Sebastian?”  
Her voice was soft, warm, gracing his ears with its presence, but he remained still. Motionless. As dead as his brothers.   
Their funerals had been today, buried in the cold ground with his parents beside them, never to be seen again. He had hardly left the Chantry where their bodies had been, wanting to stay close, wanting to thank every person who came with flowers.   
  
“Leave him be, Azriel. He is grieving.” Came a stern voice behind her. Stern, yet just as soft. They were whispering around him, just like everyone else, as if he wasn’t there. People whispered around his parents’ corpses too, as if they would wake up if one spoke too loud. He recognized the voice. It was her father’s, Erik Trevelyan’s.   
“My lord spends all his time in the Chantry. He hasn’t touched a piece of bread or rested since...news reached us.” That was the seneschal, laying out his reasons for being the unmoving shell of Sebastian Vael that he was.   
“Sebastian, darling, it’s me.”   
Darling. She had never called him that before, but he liked it. He could hear the dwindling hope in her voice, the tightness of her throat. She was crying? For him? With a moment of hesitation, she knelt before him, placing her hands on the arms of his chair.   
“Azriel.”   
“He’s in pain, Father,” she snapped in reply, half turning to face the man, “he needs someone.”   
Her dress was black as the Waking Sea at night, a neckline that showed off her elegant collarbones lined with lace. Lips glistened a pale pink in the dim light. Her hair was done up in the same intricate set of braids as always behind her head.   
  
He remembered seeing her in the crowd. Her mother and sister wore a veil that distorted their faces from the side, but she sat in the cold bare faced. He had focused, instead of anything else, on the steam her breath created, and trying to find the slow rise and fall of her chest to make sure she was breathing. She was, throughout the entire ceremony, and holding her sister’s hand. He had never known them to be particularly close, but once she glanced to him and he saw she had been fighting tears the whole time.   
For an hour in the cold air of Firstfall, he made sure she kept breathing.   
His shirt, jerkin and cloak, all of the same color, kept the chill off everything but the tips of his ears and nose. He stood with rosy cheeks as his brothers were lowered into the ground, one by one, and their caskets blessed. Then his parents, lowered and blessed. Somewhere beside him, his aunt began wailing terribly.   
  
He was vaguely aware of her hand on the back of his neck, of her hitched breath in his ear as she pulled him downwards into a tight embrace. She was trying so hard to retain her composure, unevenly sucking in air and blowing it out slowly. She sniffled, trembled. In the back of her throat, her inhale gave her away again with a hiccup. Azriel stroked his neck and hair with cold fingers, continuing her losing struggle.   
Gradually, Sebastian slid his hands up the back of her bodice, able to feel the taut muscles in her shoulders. One arm around her, and then the other.   
The room watched in stunned silence.   
She was crying now, not sobbing or whimpering but crying with the same uneven breath. He could feel her tears on his cheek.   
  
And then suddenly, he was crying too.   
  
He didn’t feel his throat tighten until after the first salty drop rolled off his eyelashes. It became hard to swallow. His chest felt tight and compressed, like someone squeezing his sides. She continued stroking his hair, and he cried. Not only did he cry, he wailed. It was hardly muffled by her shoulder. He wailed at the thought of his aloneness, of his entire family lying cold in the ground, lying dead. Though he had pretended to resent them, he loved no one more. He cried, and cried, and cried. There was no end to his tears. All he heard was himself and his gasps, like a drowning man begging for air. He sobbed like a newborn.   
Sebastian vaguely caught a woman’s voice—Elthina’s, he would later learn—ushering everyone from the room. But she stayed.   
  
Hiccups and sobs alike racked his strong form, unable to control himself anymore. His fingers curled and unfurled against her dress. Her arms were the only thing he felt, those and now the floor, not the chair, below him. He sunk down, pressing his face into her chest. He hated hearing himself cry, he couldn’t stand it. He hated himself for letting them all die, for not being there to defend them. He could’ve done it. He should’ve died instead. Instead of all of them.   
He didn’t know how long he cried, but by the time his eyes were dry and his lips tasted like salt, Azriel had grown quiet and only rocked from side to side with him in her arms. And before he knew it, he sunk further, his face hidden in her neck, arms slung across his stomach, asleep as she held him like a baby.   
  
Elthina would never forget that sight. Sebastian, the ever calm and happy to help Sebastian, cradled in someone’s arms. In a woman’s arms, no less. He had hardly tried to refrain from crying into her bosom. This was Bann Trevelyan’s daughter who rocked him to sleep, who traced the sharp angles of his face to keep him that way. The young Chantry initiate was leaving behind a life with this woman for a life of solitude.   
She was sure that wouldn’t last.


	12. Justice (Anders/Maia)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2: things you said through your teeth

“If you hadn’t been there...Maker, I would’ve killed that innocent girl.”   
“But I was, and you didn’t. You heard what I was saying.”   
He didn’t look up. He couldn’t tell her that her voice, her words had barely reached him through Justice. He couldn’t tell her that it had been like throwing dirt at a wall of stone in an attempt to break it down. Justice had heard her, easily, and blocked her out. Refusing to let her get to Anders, trapped somewhere inside.   
“I can’t go on like this,” was all he said, dumbly, unable to string any other words together.    
“Anders,” she said softly, reaching forward for his hands. Their palms were roughed and creased in the same places from their staffs, fitting together like gloves and hands. He would never forget the way her fingers slid into his palms. But he knew Justice would erase it. “Have faith in yourself. The girl is safe, as are you.”   
Safe. He almost wanted to laugh. Had he ever been safe? With the Wardens, maybe. Safe was a different word, a meaningless one at best.   
“Yes,” he whispered after a moment, “safe.”   
  
Maia’s bed was welcoming and turbulently foreign at the same time. He felt bad imposing on her, putting it to all of Kirkwall that the renegade abomination lived with her.    
She sat beside him, letting go of one of his hands to reach up and stroke his hair, guiding his bangs away from his face.   
“You are stronger than Justice,” she murmured. The back of her hand trailed lightly down his tense jaw. “You’re Anders.”   
His hard gaze remained fixed on the floor.   
“If only I could believe that.”


	13. Resistance (Anders/Maia)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 14: things you said after you kissed me

“Every night for three years, I’ve lain awake, aching for you.”  
His words surprised her, but she was good at hiding it. He supposed that was one of the many developed talents that were required to be an older sibling. He could’ve sworn he saw her cheeks tinge pink; a warm contrast against her scarlet dyed shirt and vest. “I don’t know how much longer I can resist.”   
Ever the charming diplomat, Hawke took his stubbled cheeks in her hands, a smile reaching her almond eyes.  
“I don’t want you to have to resist,” her gentle voice said. Anders hesitated for a moment, relishing in the feeling of palms against his jaw.  
In a surge of confidence, he lunged forward, strapping his arms around her frame and crashing his mouth against hers. Hawke stumbled back against one of the half-rotted wooden pillars of his clinic, sliding her arms around his neck. Anders was more than aware about the needy pants coming from his own throat, but ignored them. If anything, flaunted them. He could prove to Maia how much he wanted this, how much he had held back for the past three years.   
She placed a hand on his chest, a move he interpreted correctly as a means to pull him out of the kiss. Unconsciously, he caught himself rubbing his palms soothingly into her hips, something he’d only dreamt of. Hawke smiled again, and tentatively inclined her head to kiss him again. Slower, more savory. She was a woman of taste, and Maker, how did she taste. Anders has only been able to imagine the flowery softness of her lips, their feel. He could only catch glimpses of the warmth she seemed to consistently emit while following her around Kirkwall, watching the way she cocked one hip out when standing, watching legs clothed in slimming black carry her around.   
Her fingertips stroked down his jawline before she moved back. His fists had been curling into her tunic.   
“I should get back,” she whispered against his lips, sending electricity down his spine. He wanted nothing more to kiss her again, just as greedily as the first time, voicing his neediness, but instead he stroked the back of his finger against her warm cheek.  
“Of course,” he murmured back, touching his nose to hers. “Come visit soon.”

He watched the barely noticeable sway of her hips as she walked away and slipped into the passage that led into the Amell estate. Half of him said to follow.  
But he didn’t.


	14. The Princely Arrival (Azriel/Sebastian)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 57: things you said with no one else around

When Sebastian Vael first arrived in Skyhold, the rains of Cloudreach had set in, and the mountains in which the Inquisition had made its home turned that rain frozen. The stone walls were still in scaffolds, the tavern was still mildly overgrown and drafty. A shout rose from the battlements, two simple words that set everyone on edge: “Forces approaching!”  
People scrambled to safety, and others brandished their swords. Cullen thundered down the stairs and appeared in the courtyard, shield at the ready. Barely two weeks had passed since they had claimed the mammoth castle as their own. There was no way they could put up a fight now.  
“Under what banner?” He called reluctantly, dreading the response. There was a moment of silence, before the metallic creak of the gate was heard. A scout pressed himself against the wall, his face jubilant, and cupped his hands around his mouth.  
“Starkhaven, sir!”

The Inquisitor’s head shot up. Standing in the main hall with Varric and Leliana, a heavy, pale blue cloak was tied around her shoulders. Skyhold had no fires, no warmth to speak of. Surrounded by snow-capped mountains no matter what time of year, it seemed impossible to keep one’s fingers from freezing. The trio heard the gate rattling down and migrated outside in the cold, thin air to see what the commotion was about. Cullen was sheathing a sword; Cole was standing timidly off to the side with the surgeon, eyes peering everywhere at once. Varric and the Inquisitor trudged down the icy steps together, Leliana just a step behind. They took a position beside the Commander just as the first Starkhaven soldiers filed through the stone arches. There wasn’t a lot of them; a large company, at most. Not enough to form a battalion. They marched to a stop, standing in rank and file in the lower courtyard, and separated into two columns. A bobbing head could be seen between them, until the silence and the cold brought a man into view. Wearing white armor, a fur-lined jerkin with chainmail stitched to it, and a deep, rich blue cloak. There was a bow poking out both sides of his cloak and a lump over what was assumed to be a quiver stocked with arrows. Tall, handsome, with piercingly light eyes and dark auburn hair, ever so light stubble lining his jaw and lips.   
It took Varric a moment to recognize him, but afterwards the only difference the dwarf spotted was the length of his hair. He guessed maybe an inch longer than last time.  
Sebastian Vael had come to Skyhold.  
The former Chantry brother opened his arms wide, smiling to the Inquisitor that ran into his arms.   
“Mo ghràdh!” Sebastian laughed, sweeping the warrior off her feet. The rest of Skyhold was silent save their laughter, his mumbled affection into her ear. What spoke the loudest was the kiss he pressed onto her lips, not caring who was watching or who was there.   
“Mo ghràdh,” Cole repeated with some difficulty, “my love. In the Old Tongue of Starkhaven. He learned it as a boy. I love you, I love you and I’m not letting you leave again. Not after this mess. I-”  
“Not now, kid.”

Varric was still in a minor state of disbelief. He knew from some stories the Inquisitor had a friend in Starkhaven; and by the looks of it, this was that friend. Friend. Did friends kiss each other when they met up? Why had she stowed him away under a title he didn’t claim? The dwarf pushed his thoughts to the back of his mind, seeing the pair approach, hand-in-hand, the line of advisors that he was currently standing in. Uh-oh. It was too late to leave now. The prince had undoubtedly already seen him standing there like an idiot, in a group of very important looking humans.   
“You are the Prince of Starkhaven, are you not?” Leliana stepped forward, hands folded behind her back. Her light accent carried on the still air to every ear. Sebastian opened his mouth to give his preferred title, but the spymaster cut him off. “I had no idea our Inquisitor had relations in such high places. But please, allow me to introduce myself. I am Leliana, headmaster of the Inquisition’s intel-gathering and acquisition of information.”  
“Our spymaster,” Azriel nodded.  
“And this is Commander Cullen, head of Inquisition forces.” Leliana made a flourishing gesture to the blond standing beside her. Cullen made to bow--he was, after all, not uncivilized--but was stopped by a tan hand offered in his direction. With a small look of wonder, he shook the archer’s hand. “Lady Josephine Montilyet, chief diplomat for the Inquisition.” Calloused fingers moved from a gloved palm to slender, cold fingers that he kissed with a ceremonious air.  
“Sebastian Vael,” he finally introduced him, bowing minutely at the waist, “Prince of Starkhaven, as it seems you already know.” Out of the corner of his peripheral, Varric noted the Seeker, Bull, and the others coming down the stairs. He looked back, but Cole was gone.   
“You’ve done well for yourself, then, Choir Boy?”  
Icy blue eyes at once settled on him, a momentary countenance of surprise sweeping over dark features. Shit. So maybe he hadn’t seen him standing there after all. But the words were already out, and it was too late to take anything back.  
“Varric?”  
“Do you know any other loveable dwarves with a heart of gold?”  
The line, although accompanied by his own chuckle, didn’t strike home for the prince. Or perhaps it did, but not in the way he intended. The man’s jaw was tense, his grip solid on the Inquisitor’s hand.  
“I can’t say I do.”  
Varric felt the blood drain from his cheeks--he’d seen this man enraged more than once before, and wasn’t keen on repeating that experience. He had never fully taken to Sebastian in Kirkwall; perhaps it had been his constant preaching, his almost fake coolness, his incessant need to help anyone and everyone.  
“I asked him to come, Josephine,” Azriel said, all but stepping between the dwarf and her lover. The ambassador was rifling through papers on her writing board, wondering where in the hell she had ordered a prince from the Free Marches, but to no avail. “I discussed it with Cullen.”  
“Starkhaven is more than happy to pledge it’s support to your Inquisition,” Sebastian reigned himself in, going over what sounded like rehearsed lines. “The Breach--this Corypheus--is more of a concern to me than the guidelines of the Chantry. As it should be for everyone it threatens.”  
If he could’ve, Varric would’ve let his jaw drop. Had Sebastian Vael just denounced the Chantry? In public? It was almost unthinkable. Maybe he had changed in the past years. But, maybe he hadn’t. There was still a brewing anger in him, dormant but ever-present and ready to leap.   
“Your support will be invaluable, Prince Vael. As will your men,” Cullen said, nodding. Sebastian smiled--one of those charmingly smooth smiles--and the advisors dispersed. Varric hovered for a moment before turning his back, and walking to where the rest of the inner circle was gathered.  
“The Prince of Starkhaven?” Blackwall muttered, awe struck.  
“Oh yeah,” the dwarf snorted, “I almost forgot you were a Free Marcher.”

In the end, they all met Sebastian Vael. The Inquisitor was briefly called away and in that short time, he managed to give them enough of himself for the circle to pass their judgements. It went unspoken that this was the friend from Starkhaven the Inquisitor had said so much about, and it also went unspoken that he was definitely not a friend.   
The Starkhaven troops assimilated easily into the broken Inquisition forces, and by the end of the night the tavern was roaring to life. The prince in the white armor had become something of a beacon of hope in just a few hours, and wherever he went while Josephine gave him le grand tour of Skyhold, the soldiers stood just a little taller. Scout Harding approached him with a conversation about bows, offering to take his and place it in the Inquisitor’s quarters, and went away blushing. (She would later deny ever taking a stance in the empty room with the Starkhaven bow, or ever notching an arrow.) Varric, for the most part, kept the talk brief and stayed glued to his writing by the empty fireplace. He considered taking it down to the tavern, where there was at least a flame to keep warm, but the dwarf was unsure how many Starkhaven accents he could take at once. Despite all of it, he decided, after a long hour of shivering and hand rubbing, to get a pint. He went in search of the ambassador--she needed to get out, too. And what would be more chivalrous to drag her down to the tavern with him. She was nowhere in the main hall and not in her office, or in the rotunda or the library. He made his way to the war room.  
The large door was already open. Wide enough, he noted, so that he could easily step inside. And he would’ve, if it weren’t for the voices.   
“...thought you were dead. We all thought you were dead.”  
“I sent a letter as soon as I could.”  
Varric peered inside just enough to catch a glimpse of a pale blue cloak, and a darkened figure in white armor leaning against the giant war table.   
There was no way he was going in there.

Sebastian let his eyes fall over every plain of her face. He hadn’t seen her since before she left for the Conclave, at least three months ago. Which wasn’t long, in his mind--they’d been separated for longer. But with everything that had happened in between, it felt like years.  
“I know. I’m just...glad.” Azriel smiled, an action that sent warmth fluttering through his frozen fingertips. “And I want you to know I’m staying. The throne is mine, it’s secure, and it has been. Starkhaven is under no real threat except whatever your Inquisition is fighting. I can do more for my people here.”  
He could just barely see her lavender eyes in the darkness, but he could feel her cold breath on his lips. There was a moment of surprised silence.  
“You don’t have to. Your men will be enough, more than enough already, Sebastian.”  
His name on her lips sent a rush of blood to his head, the sensation of trickling water down his spine. So maybe it had been a while. Sebastian found her cheeks in the darkness with his hands, a light smile playing at his lips.  
“I know I don’t have to.” He guided her mouth to his, relishing in the feeling of a long overdue kiss that he’d needed weeks ago. “But I want to.”


	15. The Final Encounter (Azriel/Sebastian)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 17: things you said that I wish you hadn't

Sebastian had remained impartial for so long. Hawke and Anders had arrived in Skyhold together and for Azriel, he had remained quiet. The promise burned into his heart like a brand fresh from the coals-- _you have nothing to worry about, I won’t do anything. I promise._ She had kissed him, thanked him and then apologized, then fell asleep on his chest. He wish he had never said anything. Even if he had said he would try, but could make no stupid promises, she would’ve taken it. And he would’ve left himself a margin for error. But no, he hadn’t. He loved her too much to say that he could make no promises, even when he knew it would’ve meant the same as a promise to her.

Most of the forces in Skyhold and the rest of the inner circle had travelled ahead with the Commander to Adamant. Alistair and the Hero of Ferelden were there also, which left Hawke and Anders accompanying himself, Azriel, Varric, Blackwall, and Dorian. They had only just got out of the mountains that cradled the castle when it begun to rain, and the rain became a  _downpour_ , and they had been walking ever since. It was hardly afternoon but the sky was dark.

That’s when he broke.

Sebastian had been weighing his options all day, but in this one instant, it had become too much. Without a second to think of the consequences, he dug his toes into the wet dirt road and spun around, lifting an arrow to notch with lightning speed. He heard Hawke gasp, and Anders cursed loudly. Everyone else stopped.   
“Sebastian?” Maia asked carefully, her hands up and ready to enforce peace. “What’s this about?”   
“He knows.” The prince grit out, his shoulders tense, legs spread in a warrior’s stance.   
“Maker, Choir Boy, get over yourself!” Varric shouted above the rain. The dwarf had never liked him, he knew that, and he had accepted it long ago. Not everyone had to like him. But Varric was dodgy, never outright said he didn’t enjoy the prince’s presence, never said he was consistently annoyed by his accent. Heavier, squelching footsteps alerted him to Blackwall’s movement. The tip of a sword brushed his cheek and came to rest just barely against the pulse in his neck.   
“I made a promise,” Sebastian half-yelled, his voice furious and rumbling like thunder. Anders opened his mouth to reply but instead, someone else’s took his place:   
“I know you did. Because it was to  _me_.”   
“God-- _dammit_ , Azriel, now is not the time.” Why did she have to make this hard?

 _Caliban_ , he remembered. That was the name of her sword. Looted off a dragon they’d killed months ago, she had been quick to slap a master fire rune on it and had been wielding it ever since. She loved it dearly, just as she treasured her shield, trusted her armor. Everyone’s eyes were on the pointed tip of Caliban, waiting for the blade to burst into flames or, dare he say it, cut the bow out of his hands.

“Sebastian Vael is not a killer,” she said sternly, talking about him as if he wasn’t even there, “nor would he murder a man for-”   
“ _Who are you to tell me who I am?”_

His head whipped to the side as he shouted the words, angry eyes fixated on Azriel’s set face. Flyaway hairs had plastered to her forehead and cheeks, just as his own hair was stuck to his temples and neck. The arrow remained perfectly still, staring into Anders’ oddly acceptant eyes.

She had never drawn her sword on him before--she had never needed to. But strangely, oddly, concerningly, he wasn’t afraid of it. He knew her sword him could take off his legs in one good hit, or even better his head, chop off nothing but his fingers, cut the bowstring without ever touching him. She was only short the title of a chevalier. Her lavender eyes held his gaze with a steel grip, giving him a look that truly said  _are you really doing this_ , with undertones of  _you made a fucking promise, Vael_ , and a splash of  _you know I won’t kill you but you’re being a selfish bastard_. With an expert hand, she slid the tip of her sword between the bone-white knuckles that held his bow, pressing downwards so the tip of the arrow was aimed towards the slushy ground.

“Your  _Inquisitor_. That’s who I am.”


	16. Kisses (Sebastian/Azriel) Mild NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Kisses

Love-making, like much of their relationship, is private and not open to the world. Sebastian refuses to call it sex or even worse, fucking, because, he tells her, fucking is what he did before the Chantry, all taking and giving, which proved to be much less satisfactory than sharing. Despite his heavily conflicting backgrounds, he has readily few rules concerning sex. And they aren’t even his; they are theirs. A safeword, and a rule to not call it fucking. And not anywhere with other people. They’ve only broken the third rule a few times, once in the impossibly beautiful landscape under the equally beautiful stars of the Emerald Graves. And besides that, they agree to not involve it in conversation. Recently it’s been few encounters and far between; with the birth of the Inquisition, constantly being on the road, they are forced to settle for little kisses, hand holding, snuggling in front of campfires, spooning and kissing in their shared tent.

 

Sebastian kisses like a prayer. Soft, thoughtful, like a murmur of faith. He kisses like he prays: something he needs to do more often these days, a gentle whisper against his clasped hands. He kisses her shoulders in the rare mornings they find themselves in bed, kisses her neck while overlooking the mountains that cradle Skyhold. He likes to hold her face in his hands, calloused though his fingers may be from the bowstring. He likes to smile against her mouth and mumble things that make her smile too, never lifting his lips from hers. He likes to remind her he loves her in those moments, with their lips touching but not kissing. In those moments, they have the most privacy they can ask for outside her quarters. No one can hear him, and most people overlook it.

But sometimes, maybe more often that he admits, she draws out his wild side, and he kisses deep and devoted, anchored only by love. These are the kinds of kisses that come stumbling up the stone stairs to her room late at night, when he slides into the tub behind her uninvited, when she locks her limbs around him and falls back onto her mattress. It would be wrong to call them needy or rushed; he would settle to blame his Antivan blood for these and calls them amorous, while the others are chaste.

 

Azriel is vaguely similar to this system. With the Inquisition to attend to, and their agreed upon need for privacy, she has to dance around things she wouldn’t need to in Starkhaven or Ostwick. She’s grown into holding his hand, trudging down the roads with arms linked, settling into his arms in the tent. She’s grown into kissing the brown skin between his eyebrows, yanking his fur-lined hood over his head with a grin. She’s playful, with undertones of endearment. She likes standing in his arms and touching her forehead or nose to his, watching his features soften for just a moment to return the gesture. She likes wrapping her arms around his neck when he murmurs against her lips, when he smiles into a kiss.

The real moments are reserved for him alone, when she threads her fingers into his auburn hair and refuses to let him go, pulling him by the belt that holds Andraste’s face towards her. Sebastian is an excellent kisser, and it’s on this topic that she usually bends to him. That’s it, though: her one recorded weakness, the one thing she submits her sword arm to is the prince’s masterful mouth. Besides, he has little advantage over her, as they are the same height and just about equal in strength with the scales maybe tipped to her, and he needs something to feel better about himself. (A joke she likes to prod him with.)

Azriel lets him bury his face in her chest, which he is overly fond of, though says nothing of it and ignores any conversation that veers in that direction. Besides her lips or her eyes, it might just be his favorite part of her body. She kisses his hair, his forehead when he sleeps like this, and on his back she presses her lips to his neck and his chest. His brown skin is mostly scar free, which she is glad for, and not subject to the same tan lines that adorn her hips, which she is envious of. (Both private and nude beaches are available in Ostwick, if a bit frowned upon. She’s only rebellious enough to go topless, which Sebastian historically hasn’t been a fan of.)

 

Kissing is something they share, something they’ve taken more affection in as of late. Maker knows they’ll need a lot of it in the coming months.


	17. Annexing Kirkwall (Sebastian/Azriel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt list I found on tumblr (@effelants)  
> 24: "how long will this go on for?"

“Lady Inquisitor Trevelyan approaching, ser.”

His eyes drifted slowly up from the paper. It was a deciding moment; one he didn’t look forward to. Rain pelted Kirkwall, drenching the Starkhaven soldiers, soaking into the ground. He folded the missive in his hand and handed it back to the courier, sliding his fingers back over his hair. Slick and dark with rain, sticking to his temples and the back of his neck. The cloak around his shoulders did nothing to stop the deluge.

Her figure was one he had sorely missed. She’d been with the Inquisition so long, the only thing he had to remind himself of her was letters, sent every month or so across the Waking Sea. They were in full swing now. Words had traveled hundreds of miles on reliable lips about the defeat of the Grey Wardens, the settling of the ruler of Orlais. The Inquisition was surely shaping up to its pique power. She trudged over the softened ground, mud caking her boots, her armor-- _armor of the dragon_ , she called it--soaked to the threads. Her face glistened with rain and mild discomfort. He grabbed ends of his cloak and embraced her, hoping for one moment to shield the both of them against the sky’s tears, for one moment to offer the warmth of home. He pressed his wet cheek to her hair, a hot exhale hitting her ear. When she finally leaned back, content to stay in his arms and let the rain soak them both.   
“How long will this go on for, Seb?” She asked in a quiet, despairing voice. He hated that nickname, she knew, but this time there was little proof in her features that she had uttered it intentionally. “Are you going to annex Kirkwal to find one mage? Tear apart the Free Marches to find one mage?” His face set. She didn’t _know_ , she would never _know_ the pain that Anders had caused. Elthina, the young faces of the brothers and sisters, the orphans who turned to the Chantry, the destitute had all been turned silent martyrs in a war that wouldn’t remember them. But Sebastian Vael remembered them. Even though Elthina had pushed him, even though she had restricted him to the Chantry, denied his freedom, she was all he had known for years. The woman had become his second mother, the Chantry his second family; and just like the first, taken prematurely.

“What is the Inquisition’s answer?” He asked, all bitterness drained from his voice to be replaced by exhaustion, woe.  
“The Inquisition will not send troops.” He felt his shoulders stiffen. “It was either that or we send spies to stay in your inner circle. I talked them down. I talked them out of making you a puppet.”   
“Then why did you come?”   
“To calm your rage, Sebastian.” She always said he had been _cursed with rage_ , and though he scoffed and shouldered it away, he knew in his bones that it was true. “I’ve talked with the Viscount and Guard-Captain. The Inquisition wrote up a peace treaty. I think you should sign it.”

Without even looking at the folded paper in her hand, he took it. A peace treaty from the peacekeepers. Sebastian rocked forward and pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes closed tight.  
“Tell me what it says,” he murmured, groaning quietly when her hands found his cheeks.   
“A year of Starkhaven’s help--aid to the citizens, reconstruction, removal of the red lyrium. No occupation. If you don’t leave by the agreed upon date, the Inquisition makes you leave.” His jaw was tight. No mention of Anders; no mention of justice. “It’s the best I could do.” She didn’t apologize, he noticed, but didn’t dwell. She had never been on his side when it came to combing through Kirkwall to find Anders. Four years of his constant talk of invading the city, bringing the abomination who killed innocents to the block, had worn down her resolve in the matter.

She craned her neck to kiss him and then exited the folds of his cloak, the only privacy they had been afforded in their short conversation. The ground squelched in protest as she walked away, his arms ached to have her back. Maker only knew when he’d see her again.

_How long will this go on for, Seb?_

How long indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just got a ton of whole new prompts so expect some good stuff!


	18. The Grand Tourney (Sebastian/Azriel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this technically isn't prompt-related, but I desperately wanted to write this for no reason. if i had to choose a prompt to go along, it'd probably be 21: things you said when we were on top of the world

The roar that flooded his ears was abrupt and  _ astoundingly _ loud, but he couldn’t help but spring to his feet when the first shouts of hundreds went up. She had been itching to compete for years, and the last thing he wanted to do was deny her now, after everything she’d done for Thedas, for him. The members of the Inquisition who had attended; Blackwall, Dorian, Cole, Varric, and Josephine, all stood in succession. The Tourney’s heralds announced her but it was all in vain; everyone recognized her warpaint, her face, her build. He was only barely concerned about her lack of apparent armor: a leather cuirass and cuffs around her wrists, but her legs were covered in plate. He had tried--and failed--to turn her towards something more protective, but she refused. Julia Trevelyan and her family sat to his left, with Ambassador Montilyet and the Inquisition at his right. Their view of the field was impeccable, and the grass was kicked up, matted down, bloody in some places. The people in the stands roared, going all shades of pink and blue in the face, sucking the air straight from Sebastian’s mouth and into the sky. Their feet pounded the wooden stands that creaked in disdain, sending what felt like rumbles of angry thunder through the soles of his feet. 

 

Azriel Trevelyan entered the center of the ring, with her battered wooden shield in one hand and a longsword at her hip. She bore Starkhaven’s colors, with parallel streaks of red, white and black running from her hairline to her jaw on each side of her face. She looked  _ beyond _ fierce, like the commander of strength itself, her tanned arms taut as she drew her sword. Another bout of roars went up from the crowd, the sun glinting off her blade. His voice was lost in the sea of the people’s, but he was sure he could hear Blackwall yelling his praise two seats to his right. He was sure it took an eternity to quiet the crowd down, and the only thing that helped was Azriel bowing low towards the prince’s box. He only grinned in reply, palms bright red from clapping. She didn’t want the heralds to introduce her; people in positions of power were usually frowned upon in the Grand Tourney, unwelcomed. The Inquisitor was a different story, yet she wanted to keep her fame out of the question. She would fight one last time in the Grand Tourney, as  _ Azriel _ , not as  _ Inquisitor _ . But he had persuaded her to enter the ring before the rest of the contenders, and  _ Maker _ how the people loved it.

She held his gaze as the others entered, waving their swords and shields. The crowd applauded, shouted for their favorites, their bets, waving their hands wildly. But she met his eyes and smiled wide into the sun, tenderly placing a hand over her heart. Before he sat, he returned the gesture. The rest of the contenders entered. Some bumped her shield in good faith, others touched their sword to hers. In the Grand Melee, alliances were built and struck down within seconds. There was a man who more or less stuck by her side, his daggers almost as knicked and scarred as his arms. Every bone in Sebastian Vael’s body ached to be down there beside her, to take down all of the ninety-eight fighters with her. But he sat, his fingers tight on the arms of his chair.   
“We’re rooting for her, your grace,” Josephine encouraged softly.    
“I should hope you are, Ambassador.”

The signal horn blew loud, shaking his eardrums. Slowly but surely, the Grand Melee begun. Sebastian had only competed twice in the Grand Tourney, both times in the archery competitions. The Melee was something he had always watched, stuck around for, regarded it with interest. Azriel had competed her fair share of times, and those matches he had  _ always _ been glued to. He was beyond eager to see what this year’s competition would pan out like. The first few battles were small. Some people moved to the outside to create a loose circle around those in the middle. Small alliances were created, and the first people yielded to opponents and migrated to the corners of the ring. He noticed that each and every one stuck around, whether standing in the shade of the stands or moving behind the gates that led into the ring. They were all waiting for the fight everyone was anticipating.

People shouted, wringing their vocal cords raw, downed ale to soothe the burn, then shouted some more. Sebastian sat poised in his chair, every muscle in his back and arms tense, his toes flexing in his boots. He watched her every movement with a critical eye. Once the numbers began to thin, Julia Trevelyan’s hand fluttered to his forearm and began to squeeze. 

The Inquisitor fought like the finest of Orlesian chevaliers, pivoting on her toes, feet always moving and dancing and dodging. She moved only her shoulder to dodge a blow or jumped her entire body away from it, and always pushed forward against an opponent. It was almost like watching one of those complicated Antivan waltzes, except holding a sword and beating someone with it.  

Her arms and face were glistening with sweat, the cheap paint beginning to run and crack in some places. He saw with each pause in battle that her chest was heaving, but never once did her iron will falter. Sebastian counted each contestant who left the ring down from one hundred; and now, there was only six people left in the ring. 

 

Now Josephine’s palm settled on his right wrist. The tendons in his hands were beginning to ache with being flexed for so long, whining to be let go. But he remained still and silent.   
“She’ll make it, Sebastian.” Julia said, her voice a faint croak. It was more of a self-encouragement than a statement, watching her daughter be closed in on three sides. Her former ally was rising from the ground and hobbling meekly towards the sidelines. Another man was holding uncertain ground behind the trio cornering the Inquisitor.

A hush fell over every voice in the stands. Unable to help himself, his chair squeaking with the sudden movement, Sebastian stood. All eyes fell on the prince before following his unblinking gaze to the fight. Julia Trevelyan’s fingers slipped into his own.

Swords clashed and clanged like a raucous understaffed kitchen, shields slamming against their counterparts. So absorbed in watching her fend off her foes, he watched as she shoved one aside and he managed to rip her shield off her arm with him. He winced, nails digging into the wooden banister. That would pull a muscle wrong, at best. Dislocation at worst. A second woman gave a battle cry and charged, drawn into a sword lock and then kicked away. Her third adversary wasted no time in attacking, managed to bring her to one knee and draw blood from her side before being outmatched.

Gingerly her fingers touched the wound; it was shallow but painful in the moment. Her hand was steeped in red when it came away, but she disregarded it. Now for the final opponent; the man stepping readily away from her. Her lips moved. She was telling him something, then standing complacent on the grass, and then burying her sword into the earth. Gasps of surprise went up around the onlookers.

“What’s she  _ doing _ ?” Blackwall muttered. The last man looked uncertainly to everyone gathered behind the gates, watching intently. He then looked to the Inquisitor, sweating and bleeding, her face streaked with the mighty colors of Starkhaven. 

And finally, he charged.

It happened so fast, Sebastian knew he would’ve missed it if he blinked. She shifted to her right, just before the blade met her face, grabbed the man’s arm, and used his own momentum to throw him to the ground. He groaned and rolled over, only to be met with a hard foot on his chest. He said something to her that Sebastian didn’t need a lip reader to understand:  _ I yield. _

 

He was again drowned out by the screaming crowd, thunderous applause rippling through the stands. He found his entire body jumping, fists clenched for the first split second when silence still reigned, and then shouting right along with the people until his brown face went red. Julia embraced him tightly, babbling endlessly about how amazing the fight was and how strong her little girl had become, wiping tears off her cheeks. Josephine and Blackwall too embraced, forgetting the awkwardness between them. Cole looked on in amazement. Varric made a mental note to gather his newfound money, celebrating right along with Dorian. A chant went up, passed along every set of lips, old or young, rich or poor.  _ Tre-vel-yan. Tre-vel-yan. Tre-vel-yan. _ Sebastian slammed his hand to the bannister with every syllable.

She had won.

The stands were still erupting when she left the arena, leaving her sword and shield on the trampled grass. She pumped a fist in the air just before disappearing into the shadow of the gates. He was beyond exuberant as he flew down the stairs, shaking hands and clasping shoulders of everyone who send him congratulations.  _ He _ was not the one to congratulate, he told them all. The heralds approached him, each holding something in their hands. One handed him a coronet of fresh sage leaves, and the other a large sword.  _ The Celebrant. _ She would be ecstatic to hold it. Once the people grew quiet again, Azriel re-entered the ring, her wound pasted over with a clear liquid that had stopped the small flow of blood and was working to clean the wound itself. Someone had cleaned the smudges of warpaint away and reaffirmed the lines of red, black and white on her face. She met him in the middle.

“Do I really have to kneel? My legs are burning.” Even as she said this, even as a chuckle rose from his chest, she carefully dropped to one knee. He placed the crown of sage leaves on her dusty hair, and then laid the Celebrant over his palms, extending it towards her as she rose.

He swore the moment her fingers touched the hilt, the people erupted again. The heralds of the Tourney tried in vain to announce her--everyone knew who she was. Sebastian took her hand and raised it to the heavens, only spurring the excitement further. Later he would apologize for wrenching her pulled muscle up. 

Contestants poured back into the ring to applaud the new Champion of the Games into legend. He would never forget this Grand Tourney.

Each of the participants came by and shook his hand, embracing the new champion, stealing their chance to admire Celebrant. They filed out, as did the people, eager to meet those who had fought. When the last woman had left, while the stands were emptying, he turned to her.   
“You probably don’t want to hug me. I’m covered in dust and sweat-” her words fell away when he strapped his arms around her torso, holding her tighter than a scared child holds his prized toy. She smelled of the ground and the sun and freshly broken wood.    
“I’ve never wanted to hug you more.”


	20. On Trial (Azriel/Sebastian)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 24: things you said with clenched fists   
> Sorry for my absence! School is kicking my butt, per usual ;( I’ll try to write and post more!

“Goran Vael.”  
Sebastian watched as her shoulders tensed, the tendons of her neck becoming visible for a moment before disappearing. He had only just returned from Starkhaven with his traitorous cousin in tow, and it seemed Azriel had only just returned from the Emprise du Lion. Armor was wet with the melting snow, an all-too familiar pale blue cloak with silver tassels damp.   
She cast a glance to his bruised face and cut lip, the rich red cloak that sat around his shoulders. The crown was still on his head.   
“You defile Skyhold with your presence, Goran Vael.”

He watched each of the inner circle shift uncomfortably, mutter to the ones adjacent to them, raise eyebrows. He couldn’t say he shared their surprise. Goran shook at the sight of those ferocious lavender eyes, aflame with anger. Served him right.  
“You can’t do this,” he grit out. Goran was tall but sunken, with the same high cheekbones and mid-morning sky blue eyes Sebastian sported. His jaw was stubble-lined as well, but his red-silver; cheeks leathery and worn, having lost their fullness. “This is a Starkhaven matter. A Vael matter!”  
Goran took a half-step forward.  
“You have no right to interfere, Trevelyan whore.”  
The Anchor winked through her glove when her hand went up to steady the guards.   
“Sebastian has delegated me to handle it.” Her tone was steely and dismissive, sweeping the accusation and the insult into the fire.   
Goran’s glare fell to his younger cousin. The pretty one, the perfect one, the redeemed wandering prince, the survivor.   
“Corrupt son of a bitch.”  
“We all already know what you are, Goran. No use describing yourself.” Sebastian retorted coolly, sending his eye back towards the Inquisitor. She stood from the Ferelden throne that she had been seated in, away from the warm furs draped over its cushioned seat. Surprisingly, her feet carried her to stand before him, examining his beat features.   
“My cousin allied himself with Red Templars in the city in an attempt to take back the throne in my absence. The people know little of this failed coup d’état, save that he left the city in chains.”   
Sebastian bowed his head at the expense of pain shooting through his neck. “Inquisitor, I will accept full responsibility for his actions.”  
She scoffed beneath her breath.  
“That won’t be necessary, Prince Vael.” Her fingers, red with cold, tenderly pushed his chin up before turning sharply to Goran. “His actions are his own to take responsibility of.”   
Azriel stalked towards him as the tingling in Sebastian’s neck faded into numbness.   
“I gave him the chance to come peacefully. When he resisted...” he trailed off, too tired for words.   
“You’re going to imprison me for scratching up your boy’s face?”   
“Who said I was going to imprison you?” She stood nearly toe-to-toe with him.   
“He attacked first.”  
“Only after you attacked a serving girl, with intent to gain leverage against myself and the Knight-Captain.”   
Her surprise was written into the sideways look she gave him. He nodded his head. “The Knight-Captain is one of the few templars left who hasn’t been tainted.”

Azriel hooked her fingers behind her back, examining Goran’s tight face before moving away, roaming back to the dais.  
“Assaulting the Prince should be crime enough. Trying to retake the throne when it has been rightfully claimed, just stupid. Endangering the people of Starkhaven...the list of calamities you cause stretches far on and years back, Goran.”  
Sebastian watched the color drain from the man’s face. Surely she wouldn’t add that to the list of crimes.  
Part of him willed her to. Put Goran our like a candle once and for all. Sebastian had had enough of his scheming, enough of his mere presence. Always standing near the throne, always sucking up, as if Sebastian randomly dropped dead he would be the first to forget about him and take the throne.

Her hands balled into fists, forearms shaking. The Anchor made a snap-hiss sound before lighting up again.   
“You forget one simple fact, Goran Vael.” Azriel pivoted to face him, jaw clenched. “For as long as I live, and as long as the rightful prince of Starkhaven lives,” as she spoke she stepped carefully off the dais, arms shaking. “Starkhaven will be ultimately protected by the hand of the Inquisition.” She seemed to think for a moment. “No, by the hand of the Inquisitor.”  
Sebastian could see Goran suck in his cheeks, creating saliva in his mouth. He wished his cousin would act like a grown man once in a while. If he spat on her now, he wouldn’t be shocked to see Goran’s head roll right here in the main hall.  
She grabbed his chin and held his gaze against hers, steely and unbending, piercing.   
“Throw him in Starkhaven dungeons with Inquisition guards. People will have an example of what happens when they threaten allies of the Inquisition.”  
Sebastian bowed carefully at the waist, more or less gripping his bow for balance like a cane.  
“Unless my Lord Vael objects.” Straightening from the bow, he met her fiery eyes with his tired ones.  
“No objections, my lady.” He sighed wearily, giving her a small nod.   
The shaking subsided, but her fists remained tight.


	21. The Married Ones (All)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda similar to the "kissing" prompt I did for Seb/Az, but this time it's marriage for all my main canon ships :)
> 
> Also, I'm not sure if I want Azriel to be the Princess of Starkhaven or for her to become the Teryn of Ostwick...thoughts?

**Azriel and Sebastian** get married once Corypheus is dead. It’s something they’ve talked about for a while, since before the Conclave. Before their friends leave, everyone goes back to Starkhaven. It’s a winter wedding, and once the Grand Cleric in the Chantry has blessed their union they _walk_ _through in the falling snow_ to the castle for the ceremony. The people adore their prince’s wife, and they adore their prince. Sharing their wedding day with them, at least part of it, makes them happy. Their outfits are matching white with decorations, inlay, trim of gold. Sebastian let his wife talk him down from a kilt to a plaid sash across his torso. The Inquisition is invited, as well as Hawke and any of Sebastian’s Kirkwall friends he could track down. Fenris comes, as does Merrill, Carver, Aveline, and even Isabela. They are happy to finally be married; it changes little, they’ve been together for so long, but it feels good. And, to Azriel’s quiet pleasure, the lineage is secure with Meghan, so a child of their own isn’t entirely necessary. For their honeymoon they visit Ostwick before taking a month in Orlais, away from the world’s prying eye and away from the world’s need to be saved every few minutes. The rest of the Free Marches quakes a little at the thought of a Vael-Trevelyan throne. Even moreso, a Vael-Trevelyan alliance for ages to come. A royal wedding, through and through.

 

**Alistair and Elyse** are officially married in the spring two years after the Blight, but were already considering themselves husband and wife before that. They ask Leliana to perform the tiny ceremony in the Chantry in Valence. Elyse borrows a dress and Alistair buys a shirt. They send happy letters of invitation to their friends. Sten doesn’t reply, and nor does Morrigan, but Zevran, Wynne, Oghren, and Shale do. Teagan and Eamon go as well; and Elyse’s brother Fergus, with his new love. Their honeymoon consists of a sunset walk on the nearby beach (with their mabari, of course)  and a night full of stories and drinking in a tavern nearby that Eamon bought out for the night. The agree not to have rings; rings may got broken in battle, marred, lost. For the ceremony they kiss each other’s finger and tuck a flower behind each other’s ear. In the morning, before they leave, they draft a will, should the Warden-Commander and Warden-Constable ever fall in battle, and give a copy to each friend. Then, after many hugs and a few tears, they are gone again. The darkspawn won’t wait.

 

**Maia and Anders** never even discuss the idea of marriage. Maia had harbored her own thoughts about it, secretly, before the rebellion. Before Anders blew up the Chantry. Once or twice she joked about it. But after the dust settled in Kirkwall, she knew it wouldn’t be possible. They fled Kirkwall together, living off whatever they carried, hiding themselves away, leaning on each other. Anders told her about an old Warden friend who had sent him a letter years ago, asking him to come to her wedding, when she brought the topic up for the last time. He didn’t say anything after that, and she never spoke of it again. Then she was called away by Varric to some remote part of the mountains, and almost didn’t return. But she did, returning to Anders with a tall tale about meeting _the Alistair_ and seeing Sebastian again. The same Sebastian who would invite her to _his_ wedding about a year later. Anders thought about marriage, too. Something secret, known only to them. Even more hush-hush than his old Warden friend’s. But he forced himself to abandon the notion in all its foolishness. There was no way for it happen. In another lifetime, perhaps. Another lifetime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean like not to forget that now Starkhaven has two rulers who are both Red Jennys so likeeeee ;)


	22. Alone (Azriel/Sebastian)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 51: "i know you think you're alone out there, but you're not"

The Starkhaven castle was just as grandiose as the first time she had stepped foot in it. The cold air of winter had set in, demanding fires in every room. The great hall had intervals of warmth, and it took a battle plan in one’s head to maneuver them correctly. Conversations in the wrong areas would lead you to frostbite; dances in the right ones could set you on fire.

But Azriel had stopped coming for the dances years ago, now. Corbinian knew that. Everyone else knew that. People between Starkhaven and Ostwick knew that. It was the Free Marches’ worst kept secret.  

“Did you ever figure out what was wrong with his portrait?” 

She wasn’t startled at his voice, but she turned. Her dress was elegant and comfortable; those two things alone told him it hadn’t been her mother’s choice. Deep emerald green, with a scooping neckline, long sleeves that started below her shoulder. It didn’t compliment the lavender of her eyes at all, but it displayed the collarbones that Corbinian remembered his younger cousin going on about years ago.    
“I’m not sure. I’ve found a few things,” she smiled minutely. “His hair is too red. And I believe the bridge of his nose is wrong.” Corbinian looked up to the painting of the third son of Vael; something was definitely off about his royal portrait. His slight smile and cool gaze were the only things right. Maybe it was his nose, Corbinian thought upon further inspection. Maybe it was the fact that his boyish face survived beside the grown faces of his dead brothers. Since his exile, the list of things wrong with portrait had grown. Corbinian knew she couldn’t possibly find all of these things to be incorrect, but he took it in stride. It was her way of missing him when no one else seemed to.    
“He looks alone.” 

  
Corbinian knew that, too.   
“Dance?” He asked simply, half-turning towards the open area. The chamber musicians had struck up a slow waltz. She was silent for a moment.   
“The next one,” Azriel smiled towards him. Corbinian wanted to draw her away from the portrait, she knew, but just another minute alone with the young face of the man she hadn’t seen in three years and she’d go pretend to enjoy herself. “Thank you, Corbinian.”

The tall Vael waved it off as he walked away, ever the charmer. 

But when she turned back to the portrait, there was nothing left to say. Her sullen stare wouldn’t make him magically appear; even with his parents near four years dead, his exile remained.   
“I know you think you’re all alone out there,” she said quietly. His painted features didn’t answer. “But you aren’t. You never will be.”

The gentle upturn of his lips was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> HELP!! To all you lovely readers, I finished DA2 today and came up with an odd idea. Human Inquisitor/Sebastian Vael??? Thoughts before I write it and make a dumb of myself??


End file.
